Sparks and Ashes
by zeroia
Summary: When name is all you have left, it's up to familiar strangers to save you from what you have become./Alive!Anti-hero!Tadashi fanfic (and my first fanfic entirly on English (not my native language) ever! Please, tell me about mistakes)


**Prologue. Someone has to help**

He was _cold_. For someone who was in a fire (so red, so orange, so yellow, and so_soSO _**HOT**) he was terribly cold. Especially his legs, which (**hot**, and hurt, and something fell, why is itso_heavy_) were covered in bandages and something even more _cold_ than his own skin. He knew, they hurt. They hurt like nothing (**hot**, and bright, and – _oh_ – so painful) he _thought he_ never knew before. The bright light under his eyelids (so heavy, but not as heavy as something that fell on his legs) never came off, tearing his thoughts apart.

And the voice.

It rang in his ears, in his brain, in his _soul_. Words rang, and shout, and begged, and, pleased…

_On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain_

Ten, Thousand, Million, no-number-that-big-lion

ZERO _(Someone has to help)_

He only _thought_ it hurt. He is alright (no [_NO_] he is not, arms are _cold_, eyelids are heavy, legs are _cold_ and heavy), he has to be.

ZERO _(Someone has to help)_

The first time he woke up (no, it's just the first without red, and orange, and yellow sparks, and heavy – so heavy – _cold_ in his lungs and limbs) he saw a demon. The face, red and white – white and red – over his own burning one. No fire – there was _no fire_, but he still felt the burn, and heat, and colors dancing on his (oh, _so cold_) skin.

He soon drifted back to the red and yellow (**HOT**_,_ so, _so COLD_) world, so _apart_ from the real one. His mind pleased, begged, shouted for _a hint_ of blue, green, _violet_. To never see that red and white – white and red.

ONE _(Someone has to help)_

He fell. He tried to float, _to fly_, but he fell to red, and orange, and yellow

ONE_ (Someone has to help [him])_

The second time he woke up (the tenth, twentieth, not _second_) he was in **black**. He knew, his heavy (why are they still heavy, why won't they become _light_) eyelids were shut, and it wasn't **black**. But was finally not _too_ bright. He felt his (heavy, still heavy and _so_ _cold_) body, and not just arms, just legs, just lungs. He was [(w)hole].

This time there were sounds. The _cold_ –clack–s of unknown (life-support, it's definitely life-support which stick to his skin with it's _cold_ wires) machines, drums of drops _so high above _his head.

THREE, FOUR, FIVE _(Someone has to help [him])_

And someone (not that face so red and white – white and red) was there, touching his _cold_ skin.

SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT _(Someone has to [..])_

He woke up many times since then. Sometimes it was **hot** red, the others – _cold _**black**. Sometimes he was (always is, because his skin is still _cold_) alone, but most of the times there were they – with –clack–ing instruments, and _cold_ (yet so **hot**) metal, and words, that kept ringing in his brain even when he finally (because it hurts, it never stopped hurting) fell into sleep, wishing to see [?] ones more.

Step by step, he gained power – to sit, to stand, to (not his legs, these _cold_ metal thing were not his legs) walk. He learned, he studied, he trained. It's not like he forgot then – he never bothered to remember (only body – oh, so much – remembered). No questions (he remembered himself, that's _MORE_ than enough) asked, no answers received. He knew, that they called themselves [***], but he himself (they didn't like it, especially the one – WASHI – in the **black** mask) called them "_Kabuki_". And now he was one of them.

NINE _(Someone has to[..])_

He was never told so, but he just knew (it was burned on his brain, inside of his thoughts, all over his _cold_ skin) he was.

NINE _(Anyone has to [..])_

He got his mask after three years since he woke up the first (not the first, he told himself, and not even the tenth) time. Not NEKOMATA, how he (and USAGI, oh, little frightened USAGI) thought, but KITSUNE instead. And a (**hot**, red, burning) sword. Now he was ready to start his own [play]. And the stage would be [San-Francokyo].

He observed it from _so high above_ (all those blue, green, _violet_ lights), feeling the knowledge, aching under his shattered(and torn, and burned, and gathered back again) skull. The knowledge – _the memory_ – that he was not able to get from his sick mind. But he knew (one of the only things _he _truly knew), that the answers were there, write under him, on the red, **hot**, **black** and _cold _streets of San-Francokyo.

TEN _([..] has to help)_

And Tadashi – KITSUNE – was going to get them.

TEN _(Someone.. HELP)_


End file.
